Disclaimers:  Not mine, no moneys made.  1013 owns the one; Rysher:  Panzer/Davis the other.  Neither gave them enough to do, and Chris Carter never did explain the myth-arc properly.  Inspired by lyrics sent years ago by KickAir8P; sorry this has taken so long, dear!  Beta by Alyss, devo, Dragon, Gyrfalcon, Raine, and tarshaan.  Any remaining mistakes are my fault, and will be corrected as soon as I'm told about them.  Portions written by tarshaan, but she insists it's mostly mine.  (Me, I think she puts better edges on Matthew than I do.)
Rated:  R or NC-17 for slash, profanity, and violence.  Sequel to "Doppelganger," although I don't think you have to read that first for this to make sense.  It might help, though.  Takes place in fall of 1999.  There may be one more in this series; I don't know yet.  Last, this is for prompt #2 for Crossovers100 -- middles.

Storm Crow

"Huh."

The sharp, sarcastic monosyllable froze his steps on the concrete floor of the entryway.

"What's wrong, grandmother?" Krycek asked, giving her the courtesy title because he needed the information.  She was a round, withered apple of a woman that time had left to sit on her shelf of a stool by the front door, but she had the heart -- and the eyes and memory -- of a born informer.  She watched everyone's comings and goings.  Except for his.

Krycek had let her see his gun one day.  She no longer wanted to know what he was, or what he did, or when.  She hadn't gotten old by being a fool.

"A man came.  He let himself into your apartment."  The old woman eyed him suspiciously.  "He has a gun.  And he is not Russian."

Krycek's eyes narrowed.  He said softly, "Not Russian.  You're sure?"

She snorted again.  "He smells foreign.  Dark hair, in waves.  Not properly shaven.  A foreigner's face and a native's accent.  Another imposter."

Like you, she left unsaid.

"I'll deal with him, grandmother."

"Don't bring anything down on us," she said grimly to his retreating back and made the gesture to avert the evil eye because the State forbade the sign of the cross.

Krycek ignored her and took the stairs three at a time, worried about who might have turned up in his flat and what some stranger who'd opened his door so easily might have found.  He'd lost an arm, not his wind, but he paused in the doorway anyway.  He needed a moment to catch his mental balance; out of reflex, Krycek let it look like he was catching his breath.

His visitor looked up from his seat on Krycek's bed, deceptively guileless eyes in that deceptively bland face.  His voice was as misleadingly gentle, and the accent was flawless, cultured St. Petersburg Russian.  "I do believe, Mr. Arntzen," and Special Agent Matthew McCormick used the more insulting malchik, not tovarishch," that we need to have a talk."

Krycek would have preferred a gun barrel or handcuffs to that steady gaze and the sound of that name on the lips of an FBI agent who'd seen him produce ID for Alex Krycek.

"Fuck."  Krycek hadn't meant to say that out loud, much less in English.  His first hint that he had was a slowly spreading smile that looked more dangerous than McCormick's gun would have.

"I'll let you know when I might be amenable to bribery, certainly.  It's not yet."

With any luck, Krycek would be able to talk himself out of this by dawn.  Maybe.

Alex Krycek, or Sasha Arntzen, or Alec Smythe -- I'd like to say that the name doesn't matter, but I'm not sure that I can.  Which he is may be very important.  Those sharp eyes are sharper than they were in the States and there's no way I could mistake him for Cory now.  He's not hiding those edges any more.  From the look of him, he's also mainlining caffeine rather than sleeping, and he's lost a good ten pounds since I saw him in Arkansas.

Interesting.

Wonder how that ties in with the file names in his laptop and the sheer volume of data?  Might be time to rattle his cage again, though.  He's regrouping too quickly.  Or perhaps I should let the man wonder if I'm careless and find out how much of a fool he is.  In any case, his chest will give away any motion before those barricaded eyes.

No.  Let the man have the rope and we'll see what he does with it.

A small smile twists his lips, and if I were any more, or less, angry, I might be considering plans for that mouth.  "Does the Bureau know you speak Russian this well?"  Krycek asks it calmly, leaning against the doorframe.  "It's nowhere in your background, McCormick.  Of course, a lot of things don't seem to be."

Ah.  We're going to play this game.  He's not an amateur, certainly; wonder what he's buying time for?  Let's see how he takes this warning, then.  "I suspect you'd prefer this stayed professional, Mr. Smythe."

Krycek shrugs, that left arm just a tad behind as usual, but he's not moving as smoothly as he was in the States.  "Well, if you want to keep it professional, I'm not the one who's out of his jurisdiction, Agent.  Do they even know you're in Russia?"  He smiles, and that smile I know from Cory's face.  He thinks he's playing with knives now -- or he thinks his back is against a wall.  Wonder which it is?  "I've got an email drafted for Agent Mulder about you."

I let one eyebrow climb, holding the rest of my face still.  He does have a talent for finding weak spots.  Worth keeping in mind.  Come to that, his tone makes me think Mulder's one of his.

"Can't say I'm surprised."  He's gone still; perhaps he's figured out I'm angry.  Quite a surprise that it's taken him this long.  He has worn himself down.  "Mind, his report on you made for some fascinating reading, Mr. Krycek.  Double agent?  Triple?  Or independent?  Mulder seemed to think it could go any of several ways.  It does take work to befuddle that man, I've noticed."

I let my smile freeze him as I add too gently, "And if you mind my speaking Russian, perhaps we should change languages...?"  Some of the color drains out of his face.  Good.  Two can play those games, after all.

"Then you're not--"  He shuts up as abruptly as he'd spoken, caught up to both his breath and his wits.  Not that either was ever far off.  "Spook me and I'll end up shooting you, McCormick, and I just don't have time for this.  I don't have time to answer your questions, or even to hide your body.  So back off.  If you want to try and arrest me, try it.  Otherwise, get out.  I'm on a deadline and the clock's ticking."

That reaction makes no sense with his earlier behavior; it fits too well with some of what I read on his computer earlier.  But I'm not what?  Then it clicks.  "I'm not the spy placed at the Bureau?"  I let my tone cut him instead of my sword.  No blood here if I can.  "I had thought that was you, Krycek.  And I don't give a damn if you're 'busy.'  So were the people in Malvern who turned up dead when you came through."  My voice is getting lower and colder, and that'll do to make my point, I suppose.  "Or the police officers in Richmond, or that bank in Olympia."

"Arrogant, stupid son of a bitch."  Krycek got that much out, trusting that McCormick hadn't spent time with the IRA, only to freeze as he saw McCormick's eyes narrow in comprehension of the insults.  "Where the fuck did you learn Irish?" he asked, dropping back into Russian.

"Not quite the places you did, I suspect," McCormick said, voice still a quiet threat.  "I told you not to leave Malvern if you were involved in those deaths, 'Agent' Krycek.  Kindly explain why I shouldn't kill you."

"Not here to arrest me?" Krycek mocked him, feeling adrenaline and caffeine mix in his blood.  The price for this later was going to be ugly.  Assuming he lived, of course.

"Mulder doesn't think you can be arrested and held," McCormick said, settling in more comfortably on the bed.  His back was against the wall, hands in his pockets -- knife in one, from the shape under the fabric.  "He's not a fool.  Spectacularly wrong when he is wrong, but not a fool.  And every place I can track you for the last few years, Mr.--  What do you prefer?  Arntzen?  Krycek?  Smythe?"  McCormick watched him carefully, apparently actually interested in the answer to that one.

"Krycek is fine," he said.

"Really."  McCormick continued to study him with that same unnervingly calm expression that belied the banked rage under it.  Even without the occasional barbed edge to his tone, Krycek would have known the fury was there from the tension along McCormick's throat and shoulders, the set of his mouth and jaw.  "In any case, 'Agent,' I'm not here for the Bureau.  You're quite right.  They'd want to know why I was here--"

"And where you learned perfect, idiomatic Russian."  Krycek couldn't resist adding that, cold and mocking as McCormick had been.

"There's that," McCormick agreed.  "Do feel free to explain to me why I should let you live when you seem to trail death behind you."

Krycek paused, then said quietly, "You don't have any proof that I've killed anyone, do you?"

He does regroup quickly.  It might be interesting to match off against him in a chess game in less fraught circumstances.  In this, however, I'd rather there were fewer holes in my information, and more cooperation from him.  "That's not an explanation, Mr. Krycek."  I pause to study him and he returns it far more calmly than most manage.  "And I believe I mentioned I'm not here for the Bureau.  U.S. laws of evidence don't apply."

Krycek smiles with far more edge than humor.  "I'm still alive, McCormick," he points out.  "Clearly you're still applying some rules of evidence.  And you don't have enough."  He pushes upright, off the doorjamb, and moves past toward the small kitchen.  I shift to watch him; I doubt he's going for a weapon -- if he wants one, he's bound to have it much closer.  Going after coffee, probably.  He's been living on it, after all.  I'd not be entirely surprised to find he's breathing it.

And unfortunately, he's right.  I have more than enough to carry me here, and this confrontation certainly isn't making me any less suspicious.  Or angry.  But too much doesn't add up, and too much of what I do have is... open to interpretation.  There's no doubt at all that people die when he comes through.  But the methods vary wildly, and the motives... too often, there is no motive.  Or none that make any kind of pattern, let alone sense.  With all that and a laptop full of names, dates, and blackmail-quality information, there's more to this, somehow.  The DNA sequencing charts in the same folders are... worrisome.

I've a feeling that if I kill him before finding out what that 'more' is, I'm not the only one who will end up regretting it.

"If you'd rather I started inquiring amongst your colleagues here...?" I ask too politely, and he can't quite hide the instinctive wince at that possibility.

Still, he's nothing if not quick to recover.  "You could start.  I doubt you'd get much farther than a hole a few feet deep."  He pauses, watching the water pour into the kettle.  "Come to think of it, that would save me having to find time I don't have to deal with you....  Perhaps you should."

He sounds remarkably nonchalant as he turns the tap off and lifts the kettle to the stove, but there's more tension in the set of his shoulders than there was a moment ago.  Perhaps they would take care of me for him -- but I don't think he'd like the price.  From what I already know of his choice in colleagues, I can't say I would, either.

"They might," I agree.  "They might take the price of it from your hide, as well.  Perhaps you'd like to reconsider?"

Krycek wasn't entirely surprised that the bluff hadn't worked.  Nothing much seemed to with McCormick.  The man was right, too.  He wouldn't appreciate the price that his 'comrades' would demand for dealing with McCormick, especially since the man was just as likely to bring a few of them down while they did it.  And if he didn't have time to deal with McCormick himself, he sure as hell didn't have time to explain to his erstwhile colleagues, again, that it really was the wisest course of action to leave him the fuck alone.

He reached into the cupboard, brought down coffee and a single mug.  McCormick could damned well get his own, if he wanted any.  Krycek didn't think the man was likely to.  Not yet.

He turned, leant a hip against the counter and simply watched McCormick while the kettle boiled.  "So?  Why shouldn't I kill you, McCormick?"

"FBI might object," McCormick said lazily.  "Of course, you're assuming you'd be able to manage it."

"Oh, I'd manage it."  He smiled sourly.  "But I don't have time for this shit.  What do I have to do to get you to go away?"

A raised eyebrow accompanied the lazily amused smile spreading over the other man's face, and Krycek contained a wince at the edges barely hidden under it.  "Telling me the truth might help."

He laughed; he couldn't help it.  "Christ.  It's like dealing with Mulder all over again.  The truth might get you killed, McCormick."

"I'll take that chance."

"The truth might get me killed, too.  And who says I'm willing to take that chance?"

No edges hidden at all in that smile, now.  " 'I want to believe?'  It was your name on the MUFON card in Malvern, Mr. Krycek."

"Fuck."  Aware he was repeating himself, he still couldn't quite stop the frustrated growl.  "I don't have time for this shit."

"Then answer me the first time around, Krycek, and it'll go faster," McCormick snapped.

"I don't care if it was all over the fucking televisions -- even I saw it -- it's still right.  You can't handle the truth, McCormick."

"Then we're going to find out how well you handle dying, sir."  McCormick just watched him with that same unwavering gaze, hands in his pockets and muscles coiling tighter as Krycek watched.  "Either I get answers, Mr. Krycek, or I close the case.  One way or another.  I can't prove you've committed those murders; you're right about that.  I can prove you have a laptop full of blackmail material, including the notations on where you've sent it and when.  And you are, most surely, a killer."

Krycek tensed, wishing now that he'd had the coffee before they started this.  "That's interesting.  In this case, 'Agent' McCormick -- it takes one to know one.  That is how the saying goes, isn't it?"

McCormick smiled slowly, confirming the accusation.  "If you're expecting me to admit that was checkmate, I'm afraid you've mistaken the situation."

"McCormick -- I said I was on a timetable.  I meant it."  Krycek deliberately turned his back on the man, pouring himself a cup of coffee and using the last of the milk to lighten it.  He started fixing a sandwich as well.  "What you want would take days, and I don't have them to spare."  Without looking over he said grimly, "Want a sandwich?  Before I throw the rest of this out?"

McCormick's voice was far too close -- when the hell had he gotten up and how did he keep the bed from creaking?  "Looks to me like you could use more than the one, Krycek.  You're worn too thin for the pace you're setting."  He pulled out the spare mug and filled it with the rest of the coffee.  "No wonder.  You've no food in the house beyond that."

"I'm leaving," Krycek said irritably, making sandwiches until he ran out of meat.  "What part of that have you been missing?"

McCormick sipped his coffee, then added the last of the sugar to Alex's.  "Lousy coffee.  Local supplies, or do you just not have the touch?"  When that goad didn't succeed, he added, "Wax paper's in there if you were thinking of making those into packets.  Assuming I let you leave, of course."

Krycek snarled, turned, and did what he'd been wanting to do for easily the last fifteen minutes.  He shut McCormick up.

Strung tight as the garrote he's been making of himself, the man still kisses like a incubus.  Alex surprised me with that movement and he's surely bleeding, but it's an embarrassingly long moment before I can push him away.  "Idiot."  My coat's cut and stained with his blood, but it's a black coat, so what of it?  His rib is another matter, and the sweater over it as well.  He knew I had a weapon in hand; I'd have thought he'd know it was a blade.

The pain takes a few seconds to set in -- long enough for Alex to lick his lips rather than drag the back of a hand across them.  I was right: his mouth is sinful.  Then he realizes he's bleeding.

"What do you sharpen that on?"  He strips the sweater off without thinking about it, and he's definitely running too hard on too little fuel.  He's also too damn attractive, even like this.  "If you're not going to kill me, go get the bag out of my closet.  You did find it?"

"Who said I'm not going to kill you?"  Damn.  He moves too quickly; that'll need butterflies and his medkit's in the other room.  I bring it back and point out, " I said I'd let you know when bribes would work.  That wasn't it."

That catches Alex's attention from wherever he'd let it slide.  His smile is surprisingly open.  "Who said that was a bribe?"

"What was it then?"  A spare piece of gauze works nicely to clean his blood from my knife so I can start cutting the tape.

"A two-for-one.  You shut up, and I got some human contact."  Alex shrugs, but there are lies hidden in his voice behind the truths he threw out to divert me.  Interesting.  He's quiet for a moment while I finish with the tape, weighing something behind those too-sharp eyes.

Alex pulls out something that looks like a cell phone and punches two buttons.  It starts humming and he says quietly, "Now the clock is ticking.  In twenty minutes, anyone still in this apartment is going to be having a very long talk with a KGB that supposedly doesn't exist anymore.  If we're not in the air within two hours, we'll be moving on the ground and probably dead.  So I'm only going to tell you this once, and you'd better be fluent."

Krycek switches to Irish to tell me, "I'm busy saving the world, McCormick, and it's down to the last stages.  The preliminary forays are over; the real invasion starts in three months.  The invaders have figured out that their human 'partners' are double-crossing them, but they don't know about the rebels on either side.  I have a lot of groundwork that still has to be in place before D-Day, and I could use a reliable, ruthless partner.  If you want to know anything more, you come and help me.  Otherwise, I'm leaving -- over your dead body if you insist -- and you only get the story if we both live through this and you buy the drinks.  Somewhere far away from Mulder."

Kneeling by him doesn't give Alex a good view of me, but I've no doubt my face went blank by the time he implied his foreign invasion is from a good bit farther away the next continent.  The most frightening part is how many pieces I can feel falling into place now that I know that much.  That's why he had the MUFON card, and why the DNA sequences on his laptop looked wrong even to my mostly-untrained eyes.  You can't deal with forensics labs and not get some idea of what things should look like, especially in cases where the 'human' blood turned out to be goat, cow, or chicken.

Dear God.  I'm trying to avoid looking at this.  Eight centuries of crimes and wars, and I don't want to look at it?

Aliens.  He's no fool, nor mad, even if his story sounds like madness or folly.  And his voice, when he talks about Mulder -- I have to wonder if he thought he'd have support in the Bureau, and I wasn't it.  Mulder, who's been mocked for years for taking alien abductions seriously...?  I'd been wondering why he was reassigned to Kersh rather than fired.  Mulder's a superb profiler, but they didn't put him in ISU, where he could be punished and useful both; they put him in Domestic Terrorism, checking fertilizer shipments.  Any rookie can do that.  Fewer agents can profile.  So someone high up wants him under their thumb... or completely discredited as a disgruntled agent?

A world where Mulder's right... sounds like a world that could have immortals, come to that.  And witches, and a few other things that no one modern would believe in.  They don't know about us yet, I shouldn't think.  With Fowley and Spender in the X-Files 'declining' to investigate cases and solving so few that they do look at, I'd imagine we'll continue to pass unnoticed, short of more damn fools like Cimoli.

Until the apocalypse hits, that is.  Before spring if I believe Krycek, and unfortunately, I think I do.  Time to deal with this properly, then.

There are advantages to having lived through as much as we can; you learn to think quickly in a disaster, or you die.  Alex has only started to move away when I pull the antisceptic out of the med kit.  He hisses like an irate tea kettle when I clean out the cut.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Patching you up, since I've decided not to kill you yet."  Krycek's expression is... interesting.  Stripped bare of pretenses to see what I'll do, I suspect, but far too old in too many ways.  And stressed down past the bone.  Whatever is pushing at him, he's listening to it in his blood, in his sleep.  It's that important to him, then.  One last question ought to tell me if he's lying, although I don't really think he is.  "And if I don't go with you, or don't stop you?"

The offhand tone seems to have laid him open as neatly as my blade did.  Very interesting.  "I don't have time to bury you and I can't afford to have the borders sealed when they figure out who you work for.  You'll have to make it out on your own."

He'd rather leave a possible threat on his flank than slow down.  He's that serious, then.

I'd been thinking of leaving the Bureau anyway.  Saving the world sounds like a very good reason to hurry my timetable.

I tape the wound shut as quickly as it can be done properly.  "Right.  I'll wrap the sandwiches, and I packed the laptop away again when I was done.  Do you need anything else?"

He doesn't allow himself the luxury of surprise; we'll have to talk about that later.  He's leashing too tightly for a job like this.  Over-honing his edge will break him when we can least afford it.  "Just a clean shirt and my bag.  Clean the blood off your coat.  They have dogs."

"I'll handle that as soon as we have a chance."  He turns his back on me to start on his half of things and I have a moment to wonder what this choice is going to cost me.  I'll have to call Cory to start things in motion for my 'death,' and pick up paperwork for a fifth identity.  The second and third will likely be burnt before we're out of Europe.  Logistics for now; tactics soon, but not yet.  Not when I don't know the strategies and terrain yet, much less the enemy.  "It wasn't a doppelganger in Malvern, was it, Alex?"

"No.  It was a rebel shapeshifter.  An alien.  I'll brief you as soon as I can, but this isn't the place."  He never stops packing clothes into his backpack, but he sounds almost amused.  "You came close, McCormick.  Closer than anyone but Mulder would have managed."

"Was it working for you?"

"Reluctantly.  There were things there that had to be shut down, including the people whose deaths you were investigating.  Don't worry.  If anyone had actually tried those four, well," Alex shrugs, one-shouldered to spare the injury, "treason's still a death penalty offense in Arkansas.  A couple of them would have died even if my agent hadn't killed them.  The others probably wouldn't have survived the trial."

"Treason's damnably hard to prove in the States," I point out, scooping up bags as we go.  "And couldn't you have waited until I'd patched you to activate that?"

"No."  He's almost smiling as he precedes me out the door; real pleasure lingers in his voice, although the smile is already acquiring adrenaline edges again.  "If I hadn't set a deadline, I'd have tried to drag you into a bed, McCormick, and I don't have time."

"Some things are worth making time for," I point out mildly, leashing my own interest again.  He's stopped to stare at me; I'll have to remember this is an effective way to get the man's attention.  "You might try using my first name once we're away from that listener in the foyer, by the way.  It'd improve your chances of success."

McCormick made no damn sense.  FBI agents weren't supposed to have hidden backgrounds that left them speaking flawless Russian, weren't supposed to chase suspects over international boundaries (unless it was Mulder), and sure as hell weren't supposed to threaten suspects with trial-free executions.  They also weren't supposed to flirt with someone they'd just sliced open with a decidedly illegal (in the States, at least) knife.

Krycek nodded to the babushka as they came down the stairs, bags in their hands, and was about to head towards the door into the courtyard when McCormick caught his eye, shook his head once, barely, and strode towards the main entrance instead.  He spoke in Irish but made it sound like an insult.  "Out the back and two buildings to the west."

Krycek quit trying to figure him out at that point and went.  It would be a fast way to find out if he could trust McCormick this far.  If not, it had only cost him a little blood, and maybe an hour of the time he'd allotted for sleep.  That he could make up on the plane, one way or the other.

He hadn't expected to catch up to McCormick in time to see the man walk up to a state car doing open surveillance, pull out papers, and commandeer the damn thing.  Arguing with him would have made them even more conspicuous, so Krycek turned his collar up before he got there, tugged his hat farther down, and gave one last glance around as if he really were McCormick's driver and guard.

He loaded their bags into the back while McCormick was still telling security which high level bureaucrat to take it up with.  He knew the right names, which made Krycek wonder who his sources were.  McCormick kept up the body language and accent as they went, giving crisp orders in that same high class Russian and pointing out which streets and turns he actually wanted to take.  Once they were three blocks and two turn away, he ransacked the car for the bugs they both knew had to be there.

Krycek steadied the wheel with his prosthetic and pulled out a detector he wasn't supposed to have.  He handed it over and talked McCormick through its use in Irish; the KGB never had gotten along well with the IRA.  That lowered the odds of them having a translator easily available.

McCormick found the last bug, stuffed it into some bread pinched off from a sandwich, and tossed it to a pigeon when Krycek stopped at an intersection.  "That will confuse them," he said.  "We're headed to the airport."

Krycek considered the options.  Traveling with McCormick would throw off several of his pursuers; he never worked with a partner.  There was an immediate problem, however.  "I may not be able to get you a seat on any of the flights I have booked."

Matthew just nodded.  "I'm booked back out on four flights.  Were you heading to Amsterdam, Prague, Ankara, or Marseilles?"

He might just do as a partner.  Krycek didn't tell him that.  "Amsterdam or Marseilles, the 3:35 and 4:50 respectively.  You?"

"Both of those," McCormick admitted calmly.  "Do you actually have work to do there, or are we doubling on the trail?"

"Both.  I need to see a man to start some ripples, pass along some test results, and collect a few things before we catch a train."

McCormick only nodded and kept an eye on the mirrors.  "Will the KGB start looking for you before we can land?"

Krycek chuckled.  "They can't land six planes trying to catch me, McCormick.  Not without spooking the West into buying more from OPEC than Yukos.  And no, they won't look for me on the one flight where I'm traveling with a companion."

"Because you never do?"  McCormick nodded.  "That'll work."  He glanced at his watch and frowned.  "Timing for this will be close."

"Hope you haven't left anything in a hotel," Krycek said and meant it.  The man was only carrying a single good soft-sided bag and his coat needed replacing, but there was no time to stop.  Krycek hadn't factored a partner into his plans.

McCormick surprised him again by shaking his head and saying, "Not a thing, no.  Hadn't bothered with one.  I was here to see you."

Krycek couldn't help laughing.  "What, you were going to sleep in my flat?"

"Why not?" McCormick asked mildly.

"Good.  We'll have to share a room half the time anyway, and it's probably better if we always do."  McCormick didn't protest and Krycek went on, "You'll need more papers, and more names."

"I have some already, and a contact who can take care of more for me," McCormick commented, still mild.  "I surely didn't come into Russia on an FBI agent's passport, Alex."

"Alex?"

"If we're going to be traveling and breaking laws together, we might as well use first names.  Mine's Matthew."

"I know that."  Krycek managed not to snarl at him.  "Why are you doing this?"

"Because your story makes sense of far too many details," McCormick said.  Krycek wanted to turn and see the expression on his face, but he couldn't afford to spare the attention from the slick streets.  There were undertones in his voice that made his words an understatement.  Whatever puzzle pieces had fallen together, McCormick had just thrown himself into the fight wholeheartedly -- or something very close to it.

Given McCormick's efforts at hacking his records since they'd met in Malvern, Krycek didn't think the man would stop puzzling pieces together now, either... but this might work.

In the meantime, he'd make damn sure McCormick landed in it too deep to scrabble out and abandon him early.  After it was over, he could bail out -- but he'd agreed to come and Alex realized he was already adjusting his plans to make the best use of him.

"We're going to be killing together," Alex warned him.

"I knew what you were capable of when I agreed, Alex," Matthew said flatly, "and you're talking about fighting off not only an alien invasion but human quislings.  Damn right I'll kill either species to protect the planet."

Alex just snorted.  "See if you still say that after I brief you."

I know damn well Alex can't afford to tell me details and leave me alive if I run.  I don't know if he thinks I realize that.  Moot point, regardless.  He didn't intend for that laptop to be found by anyone, and that DNA was nothing I've ever seen before.

Watching him negotiate the streets and the airport tells me that he can't afford to keep working without a partner.  Wonder how he thought he was going to do this by himself?  He's abrasive enough to be remembered for his manners rather than his looks, but he's almost over the edge into too memorable, which means my first problem is getting him to get some sleep.  May be a tad difficult; he doesn't trust me yet.  Can't even say I blame him.

My cover is holding up well enough, but I hadn't planned for this ID to last long, either.  I'll switch to Matthew Redfearn as soon as we hit Amsterdam -- never a problem getting papers, there, especially when I just need them replaced, not made new.  From the sound of it, a few sets of new papers would be a good idea, too.

Time to call Cory, and Ceirdwyn, and vanish for a while.  After I shepherd Alex through customs, and food.

Alex dozes through maybe an hour of the trip out of Russia, eyes still but hand and legs twitching.  Too much caffeine, too little sleep.  Not dreaming, though, which is likely a blessing.  Nightmares in public would be too memorable.  I buy water while he sleeps and continue reviewing files in my mind any time motion doesn't pull my mind and eyes to the other passengers.

Alex jolts himself awake, going from sleep to conscious and suspicious so swiftly that I doubt he's slept well in weeks.  Three months still to go?  I have to wonder how long he's been setting this up, and whether he thought he'd live to see the end.  Rather than ask, I offer him his choice of the unopened water bottles and the sandwiches we made.  Almost worth the trip just to see the suspicious look I get.  Almost.

Clearing Customs is possibly too easy; do believe the gentleman knows Alex, and Alex's bank account, very well indeed.  Once out, to my surprise our first stop is almost a coat for me.

"Just soap," I tell him.  "Easier to get the blood out and let this dry while we're on the train."

The mind behind those green eyes is too sharp; he's just realized I have a reason to keep the coat.  Once he looks, he has no trouble spotting the built-in sheaths.  He nods, but doesn't ask.  A temporary reprieve, no doubt.

"Need anything else while we're here?  We'll be moving fast after this."  He looks me up and down, almost lascivious enough to hide the appraisal behind it.  Almost.

"Local currency, a restroom for three minutes, and a phone for fifteen.  And some idea where we're headed next, to set up the transportation."

"We can get tickets at the station."

That damn mask of his is back.  I preferred the lechery.  He might as well try trusting me now, too.  "We'll need to reserve now to get a sleeper.  And you need a locked door and at least six hours sleep, Alex.  Your reserves are nonexistent."

He studies me then says abruptly, "Marseilles.  By way of Luxembourg.  I want to be sure we throw off any trail."

He's still too suspicious.  That burns energy Alex doesn't have, and can't spare.  Best we head this off now.  "What guarantees do you need before you'll trust me, Alex?  You need a partner, and this isn't a war we can afford to lose."

"Making sure I meant what I said, McCormick?"  He smiles, slanted and cynical and still far too attractive.  Not Cory, thank God.  Not that Cory won't be useful, but I'd prefer not to want my erstwhile student this way.  Hands in his pockets, Alex nods.  "If you wanted to betray me, you'd have done it while I slept."  Still suspicious, which is a hell of a thing from a man who still hasn't explained why those four people in Arkansas had to die.

The irony of a (now former) FBI agent having to convince an admitted murderer to trust him makes me start laughing.  Can't say I see a point in stopping, either. He'll leave or he won't, believe me or not.  I daresay he'll use me 'til one of us breaks, or 'til we're done.  I intend to make sure it's the latter.

His smile fades from cynicism to something less sure and more human.  It only lasts for a moment, then he pulls the next job around him with a shift of the shoulders that settles his jacket and gun more comfortably.  His shoulders are down from that high, tight set, however, and the lines of tendon ease in his throat and across his jaw.

Worth remembering he doesn't mind being laughed at.

Matthew lurked in Alex's shadow like a bodyguard or an enforcer.  The worrying thing was how comfortable that felt.  Alex ignored it while he dealt with Dr. De Graff, acquiring antibiotics, opiates, barbiturates, Rohypnol and insulin with no problems.  Getting the good doctor to admit he had a few custom drugs perfected was harder but not impossible with Matthew's assistance.  Alex didn't turn to see what his 'bodyguard' was doing that drained blood from the doctor's face; there'd been no sound of motion, but the doctor became more cooperative, turning over the most recent version of the Oil vaccine as well as an aerosol Ecstasy and a few other innovations.

Nothing after that went quite as Alex had planned.  Somehow, leaving town turned into stopping for food in a bistro that was quiet, quick, and surprisingly good.  McCormick -- No, Alex reminded himself, Matthew; that phone call sounded like he was sticking with the first name for the new identities -- literally followed his nose to find it, ordered for both of them in Dutch, and spent the meal recounting gossip from the Bureau while Alex ate more food than he had in a week or three.

They made the train with twenty minutes to spare and got one of the compartments to themselves without much difficulty.  Matthew promptly started checking for bugs, trusting Alex to block the window while he did, then manned the doorway (and turned aside a woman who wanted company) while Alex pulled out the detector he'd 'acquired' from his allies and checked again.

Watching Matthew take in and organize the information on the aliens was the next indication to Alex that a partner -- this partner -- might be a good idea.  Matthew listened silently through one batch of data, asked his questions, and then listened just as intently to the next batch.  The questions were pertinent, frequently referencing or integrating data from the laptop, and he was clearly taking this as seriously as he had the murder investigation.  Nice to have another partner who considered explanations that didn't insist on Terran reality.

The trip passed remarkably quickly, even given how much information they covered.  It was on the train from Luxembourg to Marseilles that Matthew surprised Alex.

They'd changed trains, locked the door, stored their bags, and checked for bugs before Alex turned to unfold a berth and take up the briefing where he'd left off.  Matthew's hand covered his on the latch; when he didn't let go, Alex turned to see why not.

Matthew tugged the latch up, letting the bunk fall down, and kept Alex's hand, lifting it to turn them towards each other.  Alex got his prosthetic between them in time to be trapped there as Matthew leaned in and kissed him.

The most startling part of it, at the time, was Matthew's single-mindedness.  Slow and thorough, deliberate and curious, he took his time exploring Alex's lips and mouth, his reactions and responses.  Matthew didn't release his hand until Alex shifted his prosthetic out of the way.  Once Alex's hand was free, he pushed Matthew back.

Matthew chuckled, and only then did Alex realize he'd licked his lips rather than wiped them off.

"Some reason not to take the time?" Matthew asked.

The man's mouth was distracting as hell, and he kissed even slower than he talked....  Alex realized he'd let himself get sidetracked, knew his glare had softened.  He tried to shield his expression, but Matthew kept seeing through him.  That thought brought back the glare.  "Why?"

"Because we have the time and I wanted to."  Matthew hadn't pressed into him again but he hadn't moved away either.  He chuckled again and the lack of mockery in it ate away at Alex's annoyance.  "Do believe you started it before, Alex.  Was there a time limit on the offer?"

"So, what, this is a fringe benefit?"  He rotated his shoulders carefully.

Matthew took his time looking Alex over, his own pupils a little dilated, mouth still moist from the kiss, pulse beating just a little fast under that stubble.  "Whose?"

That viewpoint... changed things.  Alex took the necessary seconds to reassess the situation.  Matthew had been interested while still infuriated; he'd since agreed to help and meant it.  He had reasons of his own, but Alex would find those out as they went or he'd kill the man.  If it came to that.  It might not.

Until it did come to that....  Alex glanced at the door to the compartment, saw it was locked, and bent to pull his boots off.  Taped or not, the cut in his side twinged.  He glanced over and mentioned, "Try not to slice me this time."

Matthew smiled and stripped off his coat, hanging it next to the berth.  "I'll leave steel out of it."  He grinned suddenly.  "How do you feel about teeth?"

"On your throat?  I could manage that," Alex offered, laughing soft and still dangerous.  McCormick's eyes darkened further, and his smile said he liked dangerous men -- or maybe he just liked danger.  He was in the right company either way.

"Good."  Alex watched Matthew finish peeling his clothes off, admiring and filing incongruities in some part of his mind.  Too much muscle, even for an agent who had to stay within Bureau weight regulations, too sharp a knife and too much skill with it, too many calluses....  Matthew must love risks; he was shaped by and for challenges, and much more perilous than even Alex had expected.

So many edges concealed so well only made Alex want him even more.

When Alex makes up his mind, he moves.  Can't say I mind being the one who's undressed -- denim and leather makes for a nice contrast against skin.  His hand at my nape, lips against mine, then moving down -- I was right; he does kiss like an incubus, and like a devil he has no hesitation in using nails and teeth against me.

That fast, he's got me pinned against the bunk, then sprawled onto it and taking his weight.  Hot where he's on me and shifting along me, skin cool where I'm not under him or inside the edges of his jacket.  Wonder if he's going to bother taking any of it off to fuck me?  Teeth close on my collarbone, almost breaking the skin on my throat, and I pull him closer, thighs parting to give him more room while my arms tighten around his back, hands sliding under his sweater to get to skin.

Alex laughs against the bone, shifts and bites again, and details aren't hazing; they're getting sharper.  Adrenaline and lust and the feel of someone else's steel against my hands while I'm hard enough it's going to be an effort not to come too soon.  He can feel that, too, and rocks against me lazily, slow and deliberate, barely keeping his belt buckle away from the tip of my cock.  The pace tells me loud and clear that he's decided to take his time.  Now he's listening to me about that?

He pauses when I start chuckling, then laughs again, amused and approving.  He stripes my throat with tongue and teeth, braced on knees and elbow to cool parts of me down literally and figuratively, then murmurs, "Extra identities, no bags or reservation to slow us down, a knife... what else were you prepared for, Matthew?"

I can't think with him biting just under my jaw that way, and he rubs his cheek against my neck, scent-marking me like a cat and making me shudder from stubble against nerves.  He only laughs again and I realize I'm trying to pull him down and he's bracing against it.  "Not yet.  Did you bring lube and condoms?"

That's what he was asking about?  I tilt my head back, pointing to my coat with my chin rather than let go of hot skin and hard muscle, and take the opportunity to taste his skin between collar and jaw line.  He shifts and I let him, then hiss at the cold air when he moves off the berth entirely.  "What?"

He just watches me, face unreadable again -- then checks my pockets until he finds what he was looking for.  He found my sword in the process, and the gun and knives, but he just leans in and kisses me again, devouring and focused, so I'll decipher his thoughts later.  His body's as involved in this as mine is, hot and solid over me, his good hand tracing down my arm and side, palm rubbing along my thigh as if I'm the one who's strung too tight.

Not enough time or bed to explore him properly, and his clothes are in my way.  None of it seems to matter to either of us.  I've been wanting to drag him into bed for months, apparently, and he's been wanting human contact for a while, too.  Don't mind being pushed up against the wall; it leaves his good hand free, which is clearly to my benefit.

He's not worried about taking it slow, which suits me.  Slow is the last damn thing I want just now.  What I do mind is being confined against the wall -- admittedly, with him buried in me -- when the bastard stops.

Not enough leverage to move, and he's got me well and truly pinned.  "Have you been planning this, too, Matthew?"

Takes a moment to get that to make sense, then I start laughing.  "Which part of it?  You holding still at this point was not in any plans I'd have made."

That gets me a disbelieving sound -- startled, too -- which gives me some idea of what he means; it surely doesn't help me stop laughing.  "What, you thought I'd planned on being the one doing the fucking?  Another time, certainly."

"When you'll be 'amenable to bribery'?" he asks, and he's probably got a weapon nearby; his teeth are too close to my throat if nothing else.

I should be worried about dying here -- for that matter, I should be offended -- but I can't seem to help finding things ridiculous around him.  There's laughter and lust in my voice when I point out, "It'd be better bribery if you'd get around to fucking me, you know."

He growls and thrusts -- once -- then stops again.  "You had lube and condoms, Matthew."

Still using my first name, so we're not all the way back to step one.  Good.  "You started this earlier, Alex, when you wouldn't have time to finish.  Why give you another excuse to stop when we have nothing but time?  You need to unwind, we both want this -- why not?"

His body moves, not his mind -- the tension in the arms against and around me tells me he's still thinking -- but I'm hardly offended.  What our bodies want matches; sooner or later, we'll get the minds in accord too.  Meanwhile I want him to keep moving, and there'd be no point in trying to get free for this argument anyway.  He'd only try to kill me if I did.  This is a damn sight more pleasurable.

Somewhere in there, he quits thinking about anything else.  About time.

Alex was trying to catch his breath; the bastard kept cooperating, and it was throwing him off.  "What was that?"

Matthew laughed under him, husky and far too pleased.  "Good for you, too, I'd hope."  He twisted his head to glance back at Alex.  "If not, you're going to have to take most of the blame, since you were running it."

Hell of it was, it was good.  Alex's body was purring about good sex/warm body/friendly company.  That made him even more paranoid.  "So you don't mind?  And quit laughing."

It was about as much use as yelling at cat; if anything, Matthew laughed more.  "What, Alex, I molested you?"  Matthew shifted, looking for a more comfortable position.  He ended up with his head pillowed on one arm.  He sounded far too amused when he added, "What were you expecting?"

Alex propped up on his elbow, residual lust frozen and relaxation erased.  His voice was far too level as he said, "Not this."  The advantage of still being mostly in his clothes wasn't just the subconscious perceptions of power; it also left his blades where he could get them.  The metal slid across Matthew's out-flung arm.  Much to Alex's relief, it left a trail of red blood behind.

That relief was short-lived.

The cut closed again, gone like the bite- and nail-marks, leaving Alex staring at the blood on his blade and the now unmarked skin beneath it.  Matthew had gone motionless under him, laughter cut through far more surely than his skin had been.  His stillness wasn't the earlier lazy relaxation, but it wasn't a prelude to an attack, either.

Alex ignored it; he had the knife and the leverage.  "What is that and how do I get it?"

"It's a quickening, and if you're going to have it, you're born with it," Matthew said.  His voice was as carefully unthreatening as that too-honed body.  "It's not an unmixed blessing, Alex."

"Not much is."  Alex looked at the blade, at Matthew's arm -- still lying in range of his blade.  "You should be worrying I'll cut you again."

"Are you going to?"  Matthew waited a long moment, possibly for the knife, before he asked quietly, "Bite marks didn't stay, I take it?"

"Do they ever?"  He bit Matthew's shoulder again, a fast, hard bite rather than quit watching him for any length of time.  The indentations vanished as if they'd never been there, but Matthew offered no threat and Alex's instincts refused to brace against one.

"You'd have to bite harder."  Matthew sounded almost amused as he added, "And no, I don't always mind."

"I noticed," Alex said absently.  "You're human enough to bleed red.  That'll do for the moment."  Pieces kept sliding together in Alex's mind, distracting him from the dreamless sleep the sex had promised.  He let his mind spin, matching facts together while Matthew waited, more patient than he should have been.

"Blood's red so not an alien, but you heal too fast to be just human.  Language skills that aren't in your dossier, callus patterns I don't recognize, and weapons you shouldn't have much less be able to smuggle into Russia.  More muscle than even the Bureau requires."  Alex stopped.  "Human, plus a bit.  And you know how to use that sword, which is damned unlikely if you're the age you look, but then, so is that Russian."  His voice was grim as he went on, "Been here long enough to take a planetary invasion personally?"

"All my life, Alex.  Just like you," Matthew pointed out.  "If you're not going to use the knife, put it down and sprawl back out, would you?  You're in the middle of a war and wasting a chance to get sleep."

Matthew still hadn't shifted to attack -- had barely moved at all, other than to breathe or answer -- and Alex had to keep tensing his muscles deliberately.  His subconscious seemed to consider the answers and rationales sufficient unto the day, or at least the train trip, and his body wanted nothing more than to relax into that offered refuge.  He argued anyway.  "You think I'm going to sleep after that?"

"I think you've slept after much stranger revelations," Matthew said calmly.  "I've been reading through your laptop files, remember.  I'm as human as you, Alex--"  That ironic smile surfaced at Alex's snort.  "Yes, I do have a few ideas."  More gently, Matthew went on, "You're the one who knows what's going on and when to strike.  I don't, and I believe you that there's no time to get me up to your speed before the apocalypse is supposed to begin.  If nothing else, Alex, trust my self-interest to keep you safe and alive.  Starting with sleep now."

The sway of the train on the rails was trying to rock him to sleep as surely as Matthew's litany of reasons he was no threat.  For that matter, Alex's body was still convinced it should get rest after sex that good.  He pushed all three excuses away for a few moments longer.  "You're going to... what?  Take the bottom berth?"

"Or the outside.  I heal faster than you.  We need you alive, and not strained -- or honed -- to breaking point."

Alex stared down at him, cataloguing his body language through touch, the undertones of his voice with skills practiced on the Englishman -- no matter which sense he consulted, or which instincts, they all thought Matthew meant what he said:  He was in this heart and soul, and intent on keeping Alex not just alive but healthy to win the war.

Alex's voice was disbelieving as he asked, "What is this, Matthew?  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer?"

"Go with that if that makes you feel better."  Matthew was still watching him, still motionless; Alex finally wiped the blood off his knife and sheathed it in three economical motions.  "You cleaned that before you put it up."

"I can't afford rust, a weapon that sticks, or leftover trace evidence."  He could see where this argument was going, though.

"And we can't afford to lose this war," Matthew agreed, almost gentle -- as if Alex was the one who'd had his world turned upside down.  "You're strung too tight already, Alex.  And you're saying we have at least three months of war to go.  So.  You need sleep.  I'll take this watch."

Alex wanted to think about that, to find out what had made another professional decide he was already honed too sharp, but his instincts had already made their decision, and he was too much the professional to keep second-guessing them.  Instead, he disentangled himself from Matthew and started shedding his clothes.

It didn't entirely surprise him when Matthew rolled out of the berth, swiping away the worst of the wet spot before turning the blankets down.  He made no comment when Alex put his pistol under the pillow, only helped him get the boots out of the way.

Alex gave him one last faintly paranoid appraisal before finally removing the prosthetic.  Matthew didn't stare, made no comment on it, only helped him place the arm safely out of the way before asking, "Do I need to find you some lotion for the skin?"

Alex crawled into the bunk, glad to be out of denim, leather, and plastic if only for a little while.  "I'll be fine.  Wake me in a few hours?"

"I'll wake you two hours before Marseille," Matthew promised, then smiled.  "Long enough for a shower, clean clothes, and food, Alex."  He'd pulled his own clothes back on, gun at hand.  "I've got it.  Go to sleep."

Alex sighed and shifted against the wall of the compartment, leaving room for Matthew to lie in front of him.  Matthew promptly took the space, his back to Alex's chest and his attention on the door.  Despite being half-trapped in the bunk Alex yawned and soaked up someone else's warmth, and let him take over the watch, just for the moment.

For a man with a sword, Matthew made a very good shield; he smelled of sex that hadn't left Alex aching inside or out, and he radiated heat and safety.  Alex drifted off through a half-heard succession of internal jokes (mostly in the his own voice, but sometimes in Matthew's, and, once, in Mulder's) about swords, shields, badges, law enforcement on the global scale, 'serve and protect....'

His last thought before he fell into sleep was that two of them increased the chances someone would make it through to the end of the war.

~ ~ ~ Finis ~ ~ ~

Comments, Commentary, Miscellanea:

This story was started, three and some years ago, from lyrics sent to me by KickAir8P (April Wine's "Sign of the Gypsy Queen," lyrics available here) which got me thinking about storms, and people who scud ahead of the winds, and what kind of storms might drive Krycek ahead of them.  This is the result.

My thanks to Shrewreader for the help with the Russian; any mistakes are mine.

Feedback gratefully received at my LiveJournal or through email.

Page graphics courtesy of Boogie Jack
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